


hold me even closer now

by heartunsettledsoul



Series: don't fear doing things wrong [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of parental abandonment, a bit of festive smut, canon level mentions of self harm, fake not-dating, home for the holidays, mentions of emotionally manipulative parents, there are in fact multiple beds and they are not happy about it, time jump but a fun one!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartunsettledsoul/pseuds/heartunsettledsoul
Summary: “Okay, well, if Veronica isn’t the one sending flight confirmation details for a prepaid flight to Burlington because she decided to come home after all, who is?”“Sending what?” Betty wedges between Jug and the arm of the loveseat, looking where he points on his laptop screen.Sure enough, Forsythe Pendleton Jones III, is booked for a flight to Burlington on December 23. Two days from now.Betty lunges for her own computer on the coffee table, so frantic to get into her email account that she mistypes her password three times.Top of her inbox: Elizabeth Anne Cooper, booked for a flight to Burlington on December 23.Just below the confirmation from the airline is an email from Cooper-comma-Alice.or, Betty and Jughead visit the Coopers for Christmas. With some unexpected, tropey twists.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: don't fear doing things wrong [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2049660
Comments: 101
Kudos: 129
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees, Home for the HoliDale





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> as you'll see, this fic is part of a series that begins with [_write more of a little more_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17028543/chapters/40036770). things likely will not make a ton of sense unless you read that work first, but this one could theoretically stand on its own. 
> 
> otherwise... this is just an insane pile of festive, tropey absurdity. I hope you enjoy!

_I don't really feel a whole year older now_  
 _I'm still shaking but I'm bolder now_  
 _I need you to hold me even closer now_  
 _I know we'll make it another year, though I don't know how_  
"NYE," Joseph 

* * *

  
  
  


Betty is humming Christmas carols and selecting cookie cutters when she hears Jughead make a noise of confusion in the back of his throat from across the room.

Well—across the entire apartment. Calling this its own room would be generous, when it is their combined-kitchen-dining-area-living-space. And a de facto office-library on occasion. Like now, when Jughead is supposed to be grading Intro to American Lit papers. 

One-bedroom apartments are expensive, even when sharing rent and they decided to be cramped instead of even more broke. 

It certainly doesn’t help that the ‘tinsel monstrosity’ of a Christmas tree that Betty bought last year is taking up valuable floor space, so the furniture is smushed closer together than normal. Every time Jughead trips on the ottoman in its new position, a mere two inches away from its original spot, he glares at the tree. 

(“What is _that?_ ” Jughead had asked last year. His disdain for the shocking amount of sparkles was dripping off him. 

“I wanted a tree, and we live in California, Jug.” Betty said this as though it had been the most obvious thing on the planet. To her, it was. The tree occupied the same percentage of space in her old studio as it does in their apartment now, but for her first Christmas away from Vermont, she wanted to make it feel cozy and festive.

“And they were all out of fake trees that look like the real thing?” 

“No,” Betty said while throwing a string of lights at him. “But those ones are over $300 and this beauty was $50.”

“It’s ugly as hell, Betts.” 

“Do I look like I care?”)

Jughead calls for her attention, “Hey Betts?” When she hums her acknowledgement, he continues, a question clear in his voice. “I thought you said Veronica was staying in France for the holidays.” 

Betty cleans her hands of cookie dough with a dish towel—patterned with penguins in Santa hats, part of the previous year’s decoration haul—and pads over to him, puzzled. “She is. Remember she tried to talk us into flying there for New Year?” _All expenses paid,_ _of course, Bettykins,_ Veronica had offered, trying to sweeten the deal. 

“Okay, well, if Veronica isn’t the one sending flight confirmation details for a prepaid flight to Burlington because she decided to come home after all, who is?” 

“Sending _what_?” Betty wedges between Jug and the arm of the loveseat, looking where he points on his laptop screen. 

Sure enough, Forsythe Pendleton Jones III, is booked for a flight to Burlington on December 23. Two days from now. 

Betty lunges for her own computer on the coffee table, so frantic to get into her email account that she mistypes her password three times. 

Top of her inbox: Elizabeth Anne Cooper, booked for a flight to Burlington on December 23. 

Just below the confirmation from the airline is an email from Cooper-comma-Alice. 

_Elizabeth,_

_I would like for you to come home for Christmas this year. As this is non-negotiable and given your penchant for being stubborn, I have taken the liberty to purchase tickets both for you and this roommate of yours. If you are living with a young man, then I expect to meet him. No exceptions. Polly and Chic will pick you up at the airport._

_See you soon,_

_Your mother_

Betty closes the lid to her computer, slowly and with as much care as if it were a bomb about to explode. 

It may as well be. 

Jughead looks at her expectedly. “Do you have one too?” She nods. “Any clue who it is?”

“Um,” she hedges. “Yeah. My mom wants us there for Christmas.”

His eyebrows go sky high. “ _Both_ of us?” 

“Maybe we can escape and camp out at Lodge-Lodge? Go the nostalgia route instead of familial emotional war games? Change our names and let V fly us out to France?” Betty can hear how fragile and frantic her voice sounds; she hasn’t gone home since the summer she graduated. There were two excruciating months between the end of her university housing lease and the start of the lease for her own apartment in Berkeley where she had to put all her belongings in storage and live at home in Vermont again.

It was such a taxing experience that Betty begged off every subsequent request, claiming a lack of vacation days. 

And now her avoidance streak has come to an end. 

Jughead presses a kiss to her temple. “I don’t think bailing on a Christmas so mandatory that your mother _bought us tickets_ will go over well. But I bet,” he sing-songs, “Veronica can help us sneak away and we can have a repeat of that New Year’s Eve. Maybe I can buy you some new black, lacey things for Christmas and really do it up right.” With a suggestive smirk, he kisses her temple again, then her cheek, then a peck on her lips followed by a deep kiss that allows him to slip his tongue in briefly before she breaks away panting. Betty feels the warmth of him down to her toes, images of their memorable nights together on the mountain flashing across her mind: walking back to the lodge in the snow before their first kiss, cuddling by the fire to do their classwork, the introduction of the original _black, lacey things,_ Jughead’s voice crack when he told her he was glad he met her; every kiss, every touch. 

“Don’t you distract me with sex,” Betty admonishes, despite how much the reminder of their first days together has her flushed and wanting. 

Another smirk. “I find _you_ distracting, Betty.” Jughead kisses her again, then trails his lips down her jaw, nipping at her skin. “And you are always distractible with sex.” 

He’s right; Betty could absolutely use a distraction right about now. 

  
  
  
  
  


Almost as much as their chance meeting and instant connection had felt improbable, so too was the beginning of their relationship. With thousands of miles between them for an entire semester, both Betty and Jughead had hesitated to, in Veronica’s terms, _define the relationship_. They were two people who fell hard and fast—but who lived on opposite ends of the country, each of them on the brink of their new, adult lives. It would be impractical, they agreed, to reorient all their future plans based on a brief spark. 

Equally impractical would be to spend hours talking (and maybe some hours _not_ talking) every week while they fell back into the college routines. 

It’s the last semester, they reasoned. Senior spring was already about savoring your time. What’s a little more time spent on friends? They’re friends. They were friends who had a storybook meet-cute and found themselves to be kindred spirits. Friends who just so happened to have a life-changing few days together. 

They went their separate ways and were friends—friends who spoke constantly and _maybe_ had phone sex. 

(Phone sex was a way to stay close that neither had thought to enact until Betty, tipsy and on her way home from a bar with her housemates, texted Jughead a photo from the bar bathroom. _The lighting is perfect for a thirst trap_ , her newfound friend had told her. And so Betty took the photo, messy hair and smudged eyeliner and deep neckline and everything. _You look sexy as fuck,_ the second girl at the mirrors told her. Tomoko, her housemate agreed enthusiastically. _Send it to him for sure, Betty. If that photo doesn’t convince him you’re worth moving across the country for, nothing will._

**Miss you xx,** Betty sent with the picture. And then, for maximum effect: **Wish you were here to take this dress off me**.)

“This is a great solution for my insomnia,” Jughead had told her, waving away her concerns about their time difference—for both sexual and nonsexual phone calls. 

Sometimes they had stayed on the line together, each focusing on their assignments but comforted by the sound of the other’s breath. 

Everyone around them knew they had been kidding themselves, but Betty and Jughead only realized it on their own when Jughead came out west to interview for graduate programs. Betty borrowed Tomoko’s car to pick him up from San Jose airport and take him to his interviews there, despite his insistence she not miss classes. She had burst into tears when she saw his gray beanie on a swivel in the crowd of travellers, seeking her out. 

Tomoko mocked them the entire weekend about their _post-IRL-sex-glow_. Really it was just a reunion glow. Though there had been plenty of sex to influence it as well. 

When it was time for him to take the bus back to the airport, Jughead’s voice cracked as he asked—pleaded, really, “We’re gonna do this, right?” 

Betty, in tears once more, nodded. “Whatever it takes.” 

They kept to their word about not reorienting their plans—Betty would apply to jobs where she wanted, and Jughead to schools. They would make their final decisions alone and then together figure out what came next.

Betty, prone to tears about every aspect of her future, not just the one tied to Jughead, wept when Jughead FaceTimed her unprompted and, in a sly voice, told her he accepted his MFA offer to San Jose State. A mere 50 minutes from Berkeley, where Betty decided to stay and take a job at a local online news outlet. 

More tears when she surprised Jughead at his graduation, working her magic to be in the area just off the stage. Robes and all, Jughead accepted her leap into his arms. 

Tears from Jughead when, on their third back and forth Berkeley-to-San Jose weekend in the fall, he couldn’t walk out the door of Betty’s cramped studio apartment without saying, “I love you, Betty Cooper.” 

Naturally, there were even more from Betty when she responded in kind.

And now, tears in Betty’s eyes as she reckons with the reality of returning to her hometown. It’s not her _home_ , no matter what Alice says. Her home is right here, in their tiny San Jose apartment with the dripping kitchen faucet and the rude super and the upstairs neighbor with, of all dogs, a great dane. It’s their bedroom, where stacks of books line the walls and there’s a dent in the top of their headboard from when a nail slipped right out of the drywall and a framed photo of Lodge-Lodge (an anniversary gift from Veronica) crashed down on them at two in the morning. A dent in the wall where their headboard slammed into it as the bed moved surprisingly far during a particularly athletic evening. 

Here, where Jughead draws patterns on her back with one hand while the other is swiping the tears from her cheek as she burrows into his side. 

Betty had hoped Jughead’s distraction of choice might fuck the frustration right out of her. It’s usually an effective tactic. 

Not today. 

“It’s not the end of the world,” he murmurs in a soothing voice. 

He is right, clearly, but Betty is unwilling to admit that. “Feels like it is,” she grumbles. Jughead leans down to kiss the crown of her head. 

“I’ll be right by your side the whole time.” 

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Betty whines. When he stiffens under her, she backtracks quickly. “No, Juggie, that’s not what I mean. It’s that the closer and more in love we look, the more Alice is going to turn this into the Spanish Inquisition.” 

Jughead chuckles. “ _Nobody_ expects the Spanish Inquisition.” 

She can’t help the laugh that breaks loose. He is so good at this; assuaging her worries and anxiety simply by being there, being himself. It’s one of the reasons she loves him so much. 

“She does _know_ we’re together, right? She called me _that roommate of yours_.” 

“That is her being passive aggressive. She knows.” 

When she lifts her head to look at him, Jughead raises an eyebrow. “But did you _tell_ her that?” 

“Not in as many words,” she hedges, guilt washing over her. Betty knows that Jughead has mostly overcome his insecurities in their relationship—long distance did a number on both of them and many of those hours on the phone featured Jughead offering her an out, worried he wasn’t worth the effort. 

It had been hard to convince him without physically being near him to make him truly hear her. Betty did her best to convince him as best she could: ordering him delivery from his favorite off-campus pizzeria when he was up late writing his thesis; mailing him care packages of the instant coffee he likes, the expensive pens he won’t buy himself to edit with; taking dictation of his writing when he felt he couldn’t string the words together properly. When all else failed, if Jughead was particularly morose, Betty would break out the black lingerie from New Years and show him that she didn’t want _anybody_ the way that she wanted him. 

Betty sits up, sheets falling to her waist. When Jughead’s gaze drops down to her bare breasts, she smirks a bit, shimmies, and pulls his hand to cover one, encouraging him to keep it there with a squeeze. He huffs out a laugh—and takes a squeeze of his own, naturally—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

She brings his hand to her lips now, kissing the heart of his palm. “Not talking about you with her is purely out of self-preservation. I’ve wanted you all to myself, without Alice ruining things. It is what she does best, you know that.” 

Jughead nods. It had taken some time into their long distance relationship for Betty to open up more about the toll Alice took on her--the bout of self-harm in high school, the forced psychiatry appointments when she rebelled, the emotional manipulation through her relationships with Chic and Polly. 

(In kind, Jughead told her about his parents’ messy divorce, his mom choosing not to take him with her, trying to keep both himself and his father afloat. They stayed up until 3am that night, confiding in each other and strengthening their bond further.)

“So, I guess we’re getting on a plane in two days.” 

Betty sighs. “I guess we are.” 

They had spent Christmas together last year, despite Jughead’s dislike of her tree, but this year is their first while living together. Even if they threw together a decent Thanksgiving meal a few weeks prior, this Christmas felt like it would be their first _true_ holiday together. They were going to drink too much eggnog and watch Disney movies while tipsy, then raid Betty’s cookie tins and fall asleep under a pile of festive fleece blankets in the glow of the lights that adorn every inch of the apartment. 

Now Betty will have to trade that in for stilted conversation over a too-dry pot roast, Polly and Chic’s nonstop ski talk, and painstakingly perfect decorations that make the house feel like a museum more than a festive home. 

She darts up, wrapped in a snowflake blanket and nothing else, to turn off the lamps and overhead lights, leaving them bathed in the soft twinkling lights. The oven has been preheated for quite some time now, so Betty pops in a tray of cookies, then crawls back into bed to soak in the sugary aroma with Jughead’s arms around her. 

_This_ is what their Christmas should be, she sighs. 

  
  
  


Betty has to spend a painful hour negotiating time off with her boss, as she had been scheduled to work the next two days and the day after Christmas. She makes it a point to prioritize time off on New Year’s Eve and Day, when she and Jughead celebrate their unofficial anniversary. They strike a deal that she will work remotely on the 23rd. She’ll have to pay for wifi on the flight, without reimbursement, but Betty has enough good favor at this job—new as she may still be to the San Jose indie magazine—that she is allowed to take the 26th off and keep her New Year’s vacation days. 

Far less complicated is that Jughead is on school break, both from his program and his TA gig. 

(He will never admit it but he is, in fact, the hot TA for American Lit that all the girls fawn over. Betty has maybe shown up to his office hours a couple of times to scare them off. She knows all too well how enamored they are, just as she had been two years prior, and can only imagine how much more intense that attraction might be when Jughead is in his element and in a position of authority.

Betty has also maybe shown up outside of office hours to role play the overeager ungraduate, desperate for extra credit. When that felt far too cringey and frankly, too porny, upon her arrival, they scrapped that plan. Rival TAs vying for the same course to teach worked far better.

They have certainly branched out in their time together. It didn’t make any of their other, quieter intimate moments any less special. Each has its time and place and its own expression of love.

That said, sex on his office desk where any one of his cohort or professors could have knocked on his door was an unmatched thrill.) 

Another painful phone call to make is the one to Alice herself. 

“Betts,” Jughead chides. “I know it sucks, but do you really want your first interaction with her to be when you walk in the door.” 

She is petulant. “Yes.” 

He tucks her hair behind her ear—she has taken to wearing it down a bit more often, especially at home—and runs his thumb over the apple of her cheek. “Baby, come on. What would you be telling me if it were the reverse?” 

Betty, in a particularly stubborn mood, nearly bites back, _We wouldn’t be in this situation in reverse,_ until she realizes how cruel that would be to take a crack at Jughead’s other huge insecurity. It softens her resolve, but only slightly. 

Jughead brings over more of the freshly-baked sugar cookies to the couch while Betty presses the call button. “They’re not frosted yet!” Betty scolds him in a whisper. 

“But they’re warm and nothing cures emotional stress like warm cookies,” Jughead reasons back. He plucks a reindeer from the pile and waves it temptingly under her nose. 

Betty reaches forward to take a bite just as—naturally—her mother picks up. 

“Hi, Mom,” she says through her mouthful of cookies. 

“Elizabeth, did you really call me in the middle of eating?” 

Betty takes a deep inhale, closing her eyes. _I can do this._ Probably. “I was testing a Christmas cookie while the phone rang.” 

“Make sure you watch your sugar intake. Without skiing and with all that college drinking, your metabolism will have slowed down.” Another deep inhale. Exhale. Alice is still talking. “I hope that you’ve seen your plane tickets by now, I expected your call much sooner than this.” 

It takes everything in her to not snap her voice. “We saw the emails less than 10 minutes ago, Mom,” she fibs. “I don’t refresh my inbox every 30 seconds if I'm at home.” 

“Email _s,_ ” Alice emphasizes. “Oh good, that means your Forsythe friend received his as well. Honestly, Elizabeth, why on earth you chose a male roommate is beyond me. They’re all horrible slobs, it took me ages to get your father to ever put his laundry in a damn basket.” 

“He goes by Jughead, not Forsythe.” Beside her, Jughead rolls his eyes at the mention of his given name. “And he is very tidy and clean.” Another eye roll from him with a slight scoff; they are in a perpetual tiff about cleaning toothpaste out of the bathroom sink. He is, otherwise, relatively tidy, Betty would say. 

As she is wont to do, Alice has launched into complaints about Betty’s father and while she tunes it out, Betty rewinds the conversation. _Why you chose a male roommate is beyond me._ Does—does her mother actually not realize that she lives with Jughead because they are together? Has Betty completely misread this? 

Why would her mother want to fly a platonic roommate across the country to go home with her for Christmas, though? That would be absurd. 

Right? 

Jughead feeds her the rest of the cookie, brow furrowed at what is likely a pained expression on her face. _You okay?_ he mouths. 

She isn’t quite sure, actually. 

“All that aside,” Alice is saying, “if he’s a decent roommate I suppose that’s fine. As long as he’s not some lothario bringing girls home every night like Chic’s college roommates. He always complained when they would copulate late into the night when he had early practices. You need proper sleep to avoid wrinkles and you can’t let lack of sleep affect your work.” 

If she weren’t absolutely dumbfounded, Betty would be more put off by her mother using the word _copulate._

_“_...but I suppose if he passed your standards to share an apartment he’s a perfectly fine young man. I would have preferred you allowed me to vet him myself before you signed a lease, but if he is questionable I can pay for you to break your lease.” 

Betty must look horrified because Jughead seems genuinely worried now. 

“Make sure you both bring appropriate dress as we will be attending Midnight Mass, no matter what your friend has to say about it. We are extending a gracious opportunity to him. I have to get back to work now, but please provide updates when you are leaving for the airport. Goodbye, Elizabeth, I really am excited to see you.” 

Betty grabs another cookie from Jughead’s hands and drops the phone like it’s burned her. Jughead looks at her expectantly, clearly waiting for a summary of the conversation. 

She swallows. Looks up at the ceiling. Wishes for a quick death. “Um. I think we have a problem.”

  
.

.

.

.

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

_I want more of me, more of you_  
 _More wandering into night skies_  
 _From the sunrise side view_  
 _More deep breaths, more exhales_  
 _More winding off the road_  
 _For my story to tell_  
"More Love," Sara Bareilles 

* * *

It’s hard to be mad at Betty; for one, she is very forgivable, and for another, Jughead loves her too much to allow himself to feel negatively toward her for too long. 

And he’s not  _ mad _ , per se. If he were in Betty’s position, he too would avoid sharing details of his personal life with Alice Cooper. As such, there’s very little that FP or Gladys and his stepfather know—but they also don’t  _ ask.  _ JB, on the other hand, asks a lot. So JB knows all about his classes, the sometimes-brilliant but often infuriating students he teaches, and a fair amount about Betty. It’s not like he gave her excruciating details about their whirlwind weekend—not even Archie knows those, despite his best efforts—but she knew he met somebody. 

“You’re acting weird,” she’d said. “You’re all.... smiley.” Jughead had tried to deter her until she caught him video chatting with Betty and JB shrieked, ran over, and popped her head in frame. “You’re talking to a  _ girl?”  _

JB will graduate high school this year and both Jughead and Betty have been putting money aside to buy her a plane ticket to California as a graduation present. 

So, yeah. JB knows he lives with Betty. In a non-platonic way. 

And Betty’s family does not. 

And Jughead isn’t sure how to feel about that. But it _ is  _ hard to be upset with her—let alone stay upset. Especially not when he can tell she’s really beating herself up about it. 

If he were a lesser man, Jughead would ride out the  _ let me make this up to you  _ train Betty has put them on—the steak she cooked on Sunday night, the shower she interrupted after said steak, the two ( _ two _ ) blow jobs—but he isn’t. 

“Betts,” he groaned Monday morning, waking up to her fingers dancing at his waistband. “Don’t.” 

She jerks back, shock on her face and tears in her eyes. 

_ Fuck.  _

“Baby,” he says, softer, “Don’t do that just because you think you owe me an apology. Apology sex when I’ve already forgiven you isn’t fair to either of us.” 

Some of the tears spill over, running tracks down her cheeks and down to the loose neck on her reindeer sleep shirt. “But I  _ need  _ to apologize.” She ducks her head and he can tell she doesn’t want him to see how upset she is. 

“No you don’t.” Jughead tugs her closer, tilting her head to look at him. “This was an accidental, ridiculous misunderstanding that is not your fault. Yes, my feelings were hurt yesterday, but that doesn’t mean I am mad at you. So, please, no more apologies.” 

He presses a kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then butterflies more across her face until she is giggling and swatting him away. When he leans back, Jughead is glad to see there aren’t fresh tears. Betty opens her mouth, seems to catch herself, then closes it. 

“What?” he asks. 

Betty chews her lip. “I was about to apologize for over-apologizing.” 

Jughead snorts in laughter and pulls her in for a sound kiss. “Your non-apology is accepted.” 

A wicked look crosses her eyes. “Can I give you _ non- _ apology head?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re going to be late for work, Betts.” 

That look again. “Was that a challenge?” 

It wasn’t, but he is more than happy to reap the rewards. 

When Betty is dressed for work—in what he might consider an embarrassing record time if he weren’t so impressed with his girlfriend’s determination and skilled tongue—Jughead pours coffee into her to-go mug and asks her, “What do you think would happen if you just ...tell your mom we’re together?” 

Betty sucks a breath in through her teeth. “Alice may be a poinsettia-and-lily church goer, but given the many, miserable teenage conversations about how  _ I only get one reputation _ , I don’t think the  _ living in sin  _ conversation is something we want to be within a one-thousand mile radius of.”

“Doesn’t Chic live with his girlfriend?” 

“Juggie,” she sighs, taking the coffee from him and giving him a minty-fresh-toothpaste kiss, “You are trying to apply logic to a woman who defies logic any which way for it to suit her needs. Chic is a boy, so he can sin as much as he wants. And according to Polly, Donna is a nightmare so I imagine my mom is happy not to deal with her around the house.” 

He sighs, not out of annoyance or resignation, but out of frustration for Betty’s younger self—and current self—for having to jump through an ever-changing set of Cooper hoops. 

Betty misreads and starts, “I’m sor—” but Jughead surges forward to give her a more thorough kiss, his coffee breath be damned. By the time he is finished, Betty blinks, a little dazed at his enthusiasm and needless apology forgotten. 

(He feels a burst of smug pride that he can still distract her that way after two years.) 

“Go be my brilliant journalist girlfriend, or your speed challenge will be all for naught.” Jughead places his hands on her hips and spins her toward the door to send her on her way. 

  
  
  
  


Focusing on the task at hand—grading the final papers for his American Lit class—is near impossible, so Jughead shoves his computer aside and assesses the apartment. 

It’s ...well he wouldn’t say it’s a disaster but it certainly is messy enough to irk Betty now, let alone come back to after a trip to see her emotionally exhausting family. He begins by transferring their collection of assorted coffee mugs and drinking glasses into the dishwasher (one benefit of their tiny apartment), then tackles the haphazard stacks of books and notebooks and pens and coasters and printed-out recipes to test. He swiffers the floors, maneuvering around Betty’s absurd tinsel tree to get the dust bunnies behind it, and crouches on the floor to catch the ones under their bed.

That evolves into scrubbing shower tiles, tossing the expired condiments from the fridge, washing the sheets in the basement, and—after carefully reading all tags and instructions—putting in a load of Betty’s laundry while the sheets wash. 

As those timers run on his phone, Archie texts about playing a video game and Jughead decides the day is mostly a loss and agrees, though says he’ll need to pause when it’s time to switch over the laundry. 

“Hi, housewife,” Archie mocks over the headset, as though he hasn’t been doing his own laundry since puberty to avoid any and all embarrassment. 

“One day, Archibald, your significant other is going to have a bad day and when your only solution is to serenade her when you could have cleaned or made dinner, you will regret your lack of household skills.” 

_ Whipped,  _ Archie fake-coughs into the mic. Jughead retaliates by shoving his avatar off a roof, forcing a quest restart. “What the fuck,” Archie whines. 

“This is why you’re still single, Arch.” 

He can practically hear the shrug. “You live your life, I live mine, Jug.” 

Fair enough, Jughead supposes. 

Archie sounds thoughtful when he says, “You know, speaking of my singledom, I bet that one of my girls of holiday flings past could be a solid source of advice for meeting Betty’s family.” 

Jughead shoves him off the roof again. 

  
  
  
  


When faced with the choice between tallying up all the plagiarism he needs to report while grading, or opening up to Veronica Lodge, Jughead would prefer to drive straight into the Pacific.

Still, he presses her contact name and breathes deeply during the dial tone. 

“Betty’s a six-and-a-half, beanie boy.”

“Excuse me?”

Veronica heaves a sigh. “Her ring size, jackass, I assume you are ring hunting since I cannot imagine another situation in which you would be calling me.” 

Jughead closes his eyes and groans. “Veronica could you at least let me finish grad school before we have this conversation?” 

(It’s not like he  _ hasn’t  _ thought about spending the rest of his life with Betty—dreamt, hoped, prayed. But seriously, Veronica, school loans. And preferably an apartment larger than a shoebox first.) 

“I suppose that’s an acceptable excuse,” Veronica hums. “In that case, to what do I owe this supposed pleasure?” 

“Has Betty told you that Alice is forcibly flying us to Vermont for Christmas?” 

Veronica swears loudly enough that Jughead pulls the phone away from his ear for a moment. “ _ God,  _ she’s a piece of work,” she hisses. 

“There’s, uh,” Jughead hedges, “there’s a bit more of a problem.” 

After Jughead explains the predicament, there is a long pause on the other end of the line. He is just about to ask if she’s still there when he hears  _ dios mio,  _ and a heavy sigh. “Well that’s going to be an interesting visit. Are you seeking advice on how to deal with the dragon?” 

“A bit, I suppose,” Jughead answers. “I mostly want to know what I can do to mitigate Betty’s stress. I’m worried that she’ll spend the whole trip in a low-grade panic attack and I know how to support her through those in general, but I know her family is a different ballgame.” 

“You’re one of the good ones, Jughead.” Veronica sounds as sincere as he’s ever heard her and though he knows he’s had her stamp of approval since that fateful New Year’s Eve, her words are a welcome reassurance. It is Betty’s self-selected family that is most important, not her blood relations. He knows this better than most and knows that people like Veronica and Tomoko and Cricket, Betty’s ‘work wife’ from her old Berkeley job, are the ones that matter. 

Still… 

Veronica sighs again. “The best thing you can do is what you’re already doing. Be there for her and throw yourself on a grenade if you have to. Alice has—well she’s always  _ meant  _ well but she doesn’t know how to manage anything or anyone outside of the mould she’s set. And,” she says, in a tone Jughead doesn’t think signals anything good, “I  _ know  _ you know the best ways to take the edge off for our girl. If all else fails, a couple of good orgasms should do the trick.” 

“I’m hanging up now.” 

  
  
  
  


Jughead is writing his third email to the dean about plagiarism when Betty traipses through the door. True to form, she drops all her things to the floor before meticulously removing her boots, hanging up her coat, and removing her work computer from her backpack before hanging that up as well, then placing the computer on the side table. 

Betty doesn’t speak until she’s collapsed onto the couch next to him, burrowed into his side. “I’m tired,” she mumbles into his shirt. “I don’t want to pack.” It’s then that she picks her head up, looking around the room. “You cleaned?” 

Her voice makes it clear that she is half a breath away from bursting into tears; Jughead wraps his arm around her waist to bring her closer if she wants to steer into this particular skid. “I wanted things to be easier when you got home,” he murmurs into the crown of her head. “I dug our travel stuff out from under the bed, too.” 

“I love you, Juggie.” 

“I love you too, Betts.” 

Her voice is petulant as she toys with the frayed hem of his t-shirt. “I bet you won’t after three days of the Cooper Family Circus.” 

Jughead rubs light circles over her back. “Unless the Cooper Family Circus does, in fact, employ a circus clown, I’m not going anywhere. And even if there is a clown, I’ll only be gone long enough to grab a pitchfork.” 

Betty’s huff of laughter is promising, at the very least. 

“I was thinking,” he says. 

“That’s dangerous.” 

“ _ There _ she is,” Jughead cheers before making a face at her. “I was thinking we could do our Christmas Eve tonight if you wanted. Then we can still watch crappy movies and make a blanket cocoon and open a few presents together to still keep it special.” 

Betty hugs him tightly. “That sounds amazing. I want to pack first so I don’t have to think about it again until we leave. Can we order Thai too? Then we don’t have to dirty anything up.” 

“Well I can think of a few things to dirty up.” Jughead intends it as a throwaway joke, but Betty’s eyes sparkle. 

“We’ll get to it,” she teases. “One of the presents you can open tonight is not family-friendly at all.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Did you buy Christmas lingerie?” 

Betty draws out her answer, “ _ Maybe.  _ But you don’t get to find out until you finish grading and I finish packing.” 

“But now I’m distracted,” Jughead whines. 

  
  
  
  


Betty doesn’t leave him hanging for too long. A few excruciating papers later, she emerges from their bedroom, decked out in sheer red lace and a silk robe, topped off with a sly smile and a Santa hat. “Christ, Betts,” Jughead breathes out. 

The robe itself is loosely tied at the waist to reveal a bra that leaves literally nothing to the imagination, nipples only covered by a floral applique among the sheer red fabric; there are panties to match that similarly hide nothing and are held together by numerous little red straps at the waist. The thing that fells him like a fucking tree is the delicate bands around her waist, a garter belt holding up thigh-high stockings in the same sheer red. 

There are a lot of complicated straps and bows and the overall effect is that Betty is his present to unwrap—and my  _ god  _ he can’t wait to get his hands on them all. 

Jughead starts by pulling at the sash on her robe, letting it fall open wider. Its removal exposes her to the chilly air, goosebumps rising over her belly and nipples only becoming more prominent. She is putting on a show for him, he knows, but every instinct is saying to hell with it so he can capture one with his teeth and get her off in his lap right then and there. 

“I heard you were on the naughty list this year,” Betty purrs, stepping between his legs where he sits dumbfounded on the couch. 

Jughead nods eagerly and runs his fingertips over the bare skin just above the stockings, relishing in her shiver. “Only for reasons that would put both of us on that list.” Hands sliding up to her waist, he pulls gently on the garter to tug her closer. 

Though she usually likes the upper hand that comes with perching in his lap, Betty sighs prettily and relaxes into his touch when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to her hip bone and sucks lightly. 

If he’s going to have to pretend they’re not together for the next few days, Jughead wants to make sure she has a few extra reminders of just how together they really are. They avoid leaving marks unless specifically discussing it first but Betty nods her approval and whispers, “It’s okay,” and Jughead nips at the delicate skin before working his mouth harder over the spot. 

She knocks the beanie off and runs fingers through his hair until he moves on, satisfied with the blooming mark, and then kisses his way up to the bow between her breasts. He bites at that too, using his teeth to drag the flimsy material down until both nipples are revealed and he can lave his tongue over one, trailing one hand up to ghost over the other. 

“Jug,” Betty groans, rocking her hips into nothing and seeking any kind of friction. With his free hand, Jughead yanks her down onto his lap and holds her there so he can thrust upward for some relief of his own. 

When Betty grips tighter at his hair, Jughead can’t take much more. Holding her to him tightly, he stands both of them up and walks into the next room. All the while, Betty tugs on his hair and bites kisses across his neck. 

He deposits her onto the edge of their bed and kneels before her, hooking both legs over his shoulders to lean in closer. The slow moan she emits when he blows air over her center nearly has him losing his own tenuous control so he dives in to run his tongue over her warmth, first over the lace and then tugging it aside to get at the spot he knows she needs the most. Jughead can tell how wound up she is and it is only a few moments of trailing his fingers over the creases of her thighs and intermittent sucks and licks until she is shuddering hard under his touch. Ever the completionist, though, Jughead keeps going at a softer touch until she falls again and has to push him away with the heel on his shoulder. 

Once she seems to have caught her breath, Betty reaches for him and pulls him over her until the majority of his weight is pressed against her, leaving his groin directly on her thigh. Jughead ruts into her a few times and is ready to easily ruin the lace under him. 

“Take it off,” she gasps. 

“With pleasure.” Jughead peels back the robe and then reaches down for the useless scrap of lace, brushing his fingers over the sensitive skin as he pulls them down, only for them to get caught in the garter scraps so he gives up. 

Betty whines. “Jug, I meant  _ your  _ clothes.” 

“Oh, you want to unwrap me too?” he teases. 

“Obviously.” 

With one more pass over her center, Jughead pulls himself away to strip—he has no patience to attempt playful unwrapping Betty done for him—and then lays over her again. Betty guides him into her with her thigh crooked around his waist and they both sigh at the sensation. 

Betty mouths her own mark onto his breastbone and whimpers against his skin when he pushes hard. She kisses her way up to his ear and then whispers, “You’re my present too, you know.” 

  
  
  
  


They order their takeout from bed and Jughead takes the reins on the menu, but only because Betty has hidden in the bathroom to wrangle with twisted lace straps claiming that it will ruin the illusion for him to see her struggle out of the lingerie. 

“Betty, we’ve already had sex, the illusion is irrelevant,” he calls after her. 

“Leave me be,” she singsongs before closing the door behind her. Jughead hears her swear, likely catching sight of the accidental knots they created. Or the mapping of hickeys across her waist and chest. He hears an elastic snap, confirming the former, and then, “You’re lucky it’s sweater and scarf weather in Vermont, Jug,” to confirm the latter. 

When she eventually emerges, looking no worse for the wear, Betty has donned another set of festive pajamas—this time polar bears ice skating. He is mildly relieved to see that he didn’t get her above the neck of her t-shirt, so when she tugs the fabric aside to show the red bloom below her collarbone all Jughead feels is smug. 

He tries, unconvincingly, to fake a growl when he says  _ mine,  _ which only ends up with him coughing and Betty laughing. She bounces onto the bed and crawls over to him to lay her head in his lap. Jughead strokes lightly at the spot, “We do have arnica if you need it.” 

“No,” she murmurs. “I don’t mind. It’ll be nice to know it’s there when we’re stuck pretending.” Betty nuzzles in closer and curls on her side. “Wake me up when the food is here.” 

She isn’t usually a napper, even after sex—that’s his M.O., much as he feels guilty about it—but soon enough her breathing evens out and her face relaxes into sleep. 

In these moments, it is hard to overcome just how much Jughead loves her. It overwhelms him, smoothing out all his sharp edges and filling up every crevice—all these jagged pieces he had always felt were too much for any one person to tolerate, let alone love. Betty makes him soft; it may sound like a weakness but Jughead took a liking to the phrase when one of the graduation ushers used it after Betty dashed off to her seat to leave Jughead unsure of which direction he was supposed to go back to his alphabetical spot. “You’re soft on her,” the older man said, pointing him to the correct path while Jughead tried to right the mortarboard on his head. “Don’t ever let that change.” 

And he hasn’t. 

Betty herself looks soft right now, getting rest she must sorely need. He loves her like this the most, he thinks. Not to say that he loves her any less when she is clad in red writhing under him or poking him out of a writing stupor or caught in her own productivity streak, but something about this is different. This utter trust to share space with him, a home with him, and how naturally it comes. 

He will suffer a few days without this if it means an unending future of more. 

  
  
  


Under the soft glow of the Christmas lights—and that stupid red tree—they eat their noodles and gyoza with a queue of the best-worst new holiday movies running on the tv. Betty warms her toes under Jughead’s thighs and chopstick-sword-fights him for the last dumpling, which he had already intended to surrender but that he wants to draw out as long as possible to keep the giddy, determined look on her face. 

Once happily in a food coma, Betty turns her contented expression toward him and asks, “Presents?” 

Jughead has to retrieve them from his hiding spot, behind the extra towels and sheets in their small storage closet, and laughs when Betty opens the door right after he closes it—hers are hidden behind a bin of shoes and coats, two shelves below. 

“We should save some to open when we get back home,” he suggests. “That way there’s some Christmas magic to come back to after the  _ Cooper Family Circus.” _

“Did Jughead Jones just use the phrase  _ Christmas magic? _ ” Betty teases.

“I’m not living that one down, am I?” 

Betty pops her lips on the ‘p’ of her  _ nope.  _

“Agreed, though, and we should save one to bring with us and open there. I guess whichever is the most believable as a ‘we are roommates and friends who certainly don’t buy lingerie to fuck in as a Christmas present’ present.” 

Jughead feigns nonchalance. “Oh, so I shouldn’t bring handcuffs for you to unwrap in front of your parents?” 

Betty eyes him. “ _ Did  _ you get handcuffs?” 

“...no,” he admits, sheepish. 

“Maybe next year,” she hums with a wink. 

Betty seems to size up her gift options and Jughead pauses to do the same. The signed first edition of  _ Beloved  _ would definitely be the one to save for their return home, much as he is itching to see the look on her face when she opens it. The new backpack for work—similar to her current one, but sturdier, with a laptop sleeve and water bottle pocket, and in a herringbone pattern the sales associate assured him was  _ very in _ —seems safest for her family, but that is a large item to travel with. 

That should be opened now, then, he supposes. Which leaves the smaller stocking stuffers or the semi-bougie coffee subscription box to bring to Vermont. The coffee is ostensibly a gift for both of them, but the first delivery came with a personalized mug and he also purchased passes for them to go to a nearby roasting location and create their own coffee blend. 

It’s a bit silly, but Betty will get a kick out of it and his intent was to make a weekend trip out of it for them. He’ll have to omit that part of the gift until they get home. 

Jughead pulls the gift bag with the backpack toward him and watches Betty in her deliberation. Her brow is scrunched in an adorable manner as she thinks. 

“Okay,” she asserts after another few moments. “This one is Cooper-safe—” she sets one aside “—and this one is for now.” 

They trade and Jughead gleefully rips into his, shaking his head as Betty carefully picks out each piece of tissue paper. 

“Oh, Jug, this is amazing!” Betty pops up and takes her old bag down from its hook, immediately transferring items into the new one. “This looks like it’ll be so much more comfortable, look at these shoulder straps!” 

“Nerd,” he says affectionately. Jughead finishes removing the paper and freezes, breath caught in his throat at the gift in his lap. In a beautiful wooden frame that looks professionally done are two plane tickets—his to California for his MFA interviews and Betty’s to New York for his graduation. The backpack feels woefully inadequate now. “ _ Betts.”  _

Betty chews on her lip. “I know it’s kinda lame, but I liked the idea of having a memory of how far we’ve come. I didn’t realize I had your ticket until I found it as a bookmark in an old journal.” 

Jughead crosses the space between them and kisses her, trying to put all this love welling up and spilling over into the embrace. He loves her so much it makes his head spin. 

“Betty Cooper,” he says, resting his forehead against hers, “this is the least lame present of all time.” 

She grins and kisses him right back until they’re both breathless. 

  
  
  
  


The flight is packed and Jughead can’t stand it. He supposes it’s lucky that Betty’s mother at least booked them neighboring seats with legroom on both flights but even the minor comfort doesn’t make a 4-hour flight connected to a 3-hour one any less of a pain. 

Jughead might complain more if Betty weren’t doing her fair share of it for the both of them. 

Three times now, she has been on the verge of tears and it’s all he can do to not say  _ fuck it _ and go back home. For one, the flights would bankrupt them, and for another, Jughead is not certain that a no-show wouldn’t result in Alice Cooper showing up on their doorstep immediately anyway. 

The only way out is through, he supposes. It’s what he whispers into Betty’s ear each time she accepts a hug like she is drowning and he is her life raft. 

It’s not an incorrect metaphor. 

He hates this travel nightmare for both of them, but especially wishes Betty weren’t dealing with emotional upheaval on top of it.  _ And  _ working. 

The only way he can think to show solidarity is to stay awake alongside her, much as the plane is lulling him to sleep. She has been typing away furiously from the moment she could purchase wifi on this connector and from what he can tell, there’s no end in sight. 

So he is surprised when, just a few moments later, Betty powers down and rests her head against his shoulder. “All done?” he asks. 

“Mhm,” she sighs. Jughead nudges the bag of chips he saved in her direction and is relieved when she pops a few in her mouth; he isn’t sure she’s eaten all day. “Don’t worry,” Betty tells him, reading his mind, “You know I brought way more than just one set of emergency snacks.” From within the depths of the bag on the floor—she insisted on christening her brand new backpack for the trip—Betty pulls out a granola bar for herself and peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels for him. 

“I love you so much, Betty Cooper,” Jughead pronounces before smacking a kiss on her cheek. She giggles and rolls her eyes at him. 

  
  
  
  


Once they’ve landed and it’s time to exit the airport, Jughead finds himself reluctant to let go of Betty’s hand. He understands—he really does—but it doesn’t make it suck any less that they have to be, for all intents and purposes, platonic for the next few days. They have never been any good at that. Even when they first met, they became joined at the hip within hours. Archie may joke that Betty is more of his security blanket now than his old beanie is, but his friend does have a point. 

As ever, Betty knows his tells. In the crowded baggage claim area, she tugs him to a quieter corner, drops all her bags to ground, and flings herself to him in a hug. Jughead feels the tension drain from both of them the longer they hold on to each other. 

“This is really stupid,” Betty mumbles into his coat collar. “I wish my family weren’t so insane.” 

“It’s not your fault, Betts.” Jughead strokes her hair and leans back to meet her gaze. “Will it suck? Almost definitely. But we’ll survive. I love you.” 

Tears shine in her eyes and he watches her blink rapidly to clear them. “I love you too, Juggie.” She kisses him soundly and Jughead finds that the phrase  _ kissing like a soldier off to war _ makes a lot more sense to him now. 

It’s more Betty’s emotional war than his own, but still. 

Jughead leans into it more than he should for a public place, moving his mouth hungrily over hers and cursing the newly-added layers between his palms and her skin. He settles for cradling her face and swiping his tongue just once through her lips, but has to slow them down for fear of public indecency at the noise Betty makes. 

When they break, he rests his forehead against hers. “Ready to be platonic co-ed roommates that definitely don’t have sex?” he quips. 

Betty smacks at his chest, but the extra sweater cushions him. In her pocket, her phone buzzes and she picks it up, “Hey, Pol, yeah we’re nearly to the doors now, see you in a minute.” Jughead squeezes her into a hug one more time. 

“Into the belly of the beast,” she sighs. 

He’s expecting the blast of cold air when the doors open in front of them but it still hits him like a slap to the face. Grateful for the scarf Betty wound around his neck to his earlier eye roll, Jughead tucks his chin into the warm fabric. California has affected his weather tolerance more than he cares to admit. 

“It’s a blue hatchback toward the back of the pick up line,” Betty tells him. 

It’s not the car that he spots, but the two blonde heads and sets of waving arms. As they make their way over to Chic and Polly—whom he only recognizes from high-school era family photos—Jughead tries to get a read on the situation. He knows that Chic is the favorite golden boy and that Polly tends to follow suit to avoid making waves, but he is curious to know how a few more years of adulthood may or may not have changed that pecking order. Once again he feels a rush of pride for Betty carving her own path. 

As soon as they’re close enough, Betty picks up her pace to jog over to Polly for a hug. There’s a bit of squealing with their hellos, for which he’s grateful. Polly seems to be a mildly safe port in the storm for Betty. Chic, with a steely gaze, sticks out a hand for Jughead to shake. He notably does not pick up any of Betty’s bags. 

“Forsythe, right?” 

Jughead has never felt the need to put on airs, but Chic’s stare is weirding him out and so he tries to emulate Archie’s brazen confidence. “Jughead, actually, thanks. Nice to meet you, Chic.” 

Beside him, the loud delight stops abruptly. Betty has taken a huge step back from Polly to look at something unknown to him. It’s not until he steps next to her and Betty says it aloud that Jughead realizes what’s happening. 

“Oh my god, Polly, you’re  _ pregnant? _ ” 

Polly, with a smile similar to the one of Betty’s he loves so much, pops up her left hand—on it is an ostentatiously large diamond. 

“And engaged!” 

Only Jughead is able to see the split second slip of Betty’s facade, the shock and  _ what the fuck  _ evident in her eyes and the twist of her lip, but it is gone just as quickly and replaced with a saccharine smile. 

_ Belly of the beast indeed,  _ he thinks. 

  
  
.

.

.

.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> onward to the cooper chaos! 
> 
> thank you so much for all the love on chapter 1! I haven't gotten to replying to all your wonderful comments, but that is coming right up! I would love to hear more on this chapter, if you are so inclined.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for not updating a christmas fic until the last day of the last winter month, but we all know time has no meaning right now. thanks for sticking with me either way. 
> 
> to make up for it (and just because), things got spicy this chapter.

_All my idiosyncrasies  
_ _You like 'em  
_ _Annoyed at all the little things  
_ _I know I can be frustrating  
_ _But you still like me when I'm dancing_

_Those eyes, damn, those eyes_  
_They get me every time_  
_Those eyes, in those eyes_  
_I can do no crime_  
_When dance like I don't care_  
_You call me Fred Astaire  
_"Fred Astaire," Jukebox the Ghost

* * *

Betty is grateful that Chic is the one driving so that his focus is elsewhere while Polly prattles on about her _fiancé_ and—ugh—“baby daddy,” Jason, and Betty exchanges looks with Jughead that fall somewhere between exasperated and horrified. 

Jughead spiderwalks his left hand across the empty space between them in the backseat and chances a squeeze of her thigh. _It’ll be okay,_ he mouths. 

God, _will it, though,_ Betty wails silently. 

Underneath the confusion and shock is a current of hurt; Betty is throwing stones from her own glass house but _marriage_ and a _baby_ are big enough things that warrant a phone call to one’s younger sister, no matter how long it’s been since they exchanged more than quick small talk and holiday or birthday wishes. 

Betty is going to be an aunt. And _soon,_ by the look of Polly’s stomach. 

When Jughead withdraws his hand quickly and there’s a weighted pause in the chatter, Betty realizes she’s been asked a question. 

“Sorry, what was that Pols? I’m still spacey from the flight, I’m sorry.” 

Polly turns in her seat as best she can and beams at her, practically radiating—Betty guesses the pregnancy glow term had to come from some grain of truth. “I said it’s _twins,_ isn’t that amazing? They run in JJ’s family.” 

Betty bites the inside of her cheek and smiles. “Wow, Polly, that’s incredible.” 

Beside her Jughead mutters, “I don’t think that’s how twin genetics work.” 

Now she has to bite her cheek to avoid laughing. 

“Will Jason be at Christmas?” Betty isn’t sure which answer she wants to hear most. _No_ means their mother will be at her most authentic, with Jughead only being a “platonic” guest, and not in a good way. _Yes_ means less scrutiny of her and Jughead, but more people to handle—and new ones at that, if Jason’s own twin is to join. Betty has gleaned, through the incessant talking, that Jason and his twin are very close and Polly is very excited for the babies to be that close. She doesn’t think any good can come of that many extra people under the Cooper roof. 

“No, he is with his family for now. But I’m due April 29th and we’re looking at Valentine’s Day for the wedding, so you will get to meet him soon!” Polly exclaims. Always, always exclaims; Polly’s energy is something Betty loves about her sister usually but this is far too much at once. 

Chic chimes in on this one. “I still don’t see why you two can’t do the courthouse thing like Jason suggested. And on _Valentine’s_ Day of all things? Do you want to walk down the aisle to Taylor Swift while you’re at it?” 

Both Betty and Polly make noises of indignation at the dig on their music tastes. 

“And at that point,” Jughead cuts in wryly, “It would be less of a walk and more of a waddle.” 

Betty huffs in laughter, grateful for him to break the tension of her anxiety. She sees Chic frown in the rear-view mirror and Polly is silent for a painful moment during which Jughead looks over to Betty in panic, clearly afraid he’s put his foot in his mouth. 

Polly breaks out into giggles. “Oh god, you’re _right,_ seven months pregnant with twins? I’ll never make it.” 

  
  
  


When they finally pull onto Elm Street, a pit of dread has opened up in the bottom of Betty’s stomach. All she wants is the comfort and reassurance of Jughead’s hand in hers and she has so stupidly let her reluctance to talk to her emotionally draining family turn this into a debacle; that she has to be apart from Jughead only serves to make this a _more_ emotionally draining visit to her family. 

_Congrats, Cooper,_ she thinks, staring up at the formidable red front door. _You really played yourself this time._

Jug, bless him, is helping Polly balance as she bumbles her way out of the front seat and maneuvers the slipper driveway. He sends her a wink when he catches her looking and Betty mouths a quick _Love you,_ then braces herself. 

“Elizabeth!” 

Betty whips around, surprised at the genuine excitement in her mother’s voice. Alice Cooper, in a frilly apron, red lipstick, and sleek hair, stands in the doorway, waving. “Welcome home!” 

There’s the small part of her, the version of high school Betty who did whatever she could to seek her mother’s approval, that preens at the warm welcome. The more wary, adult Betty knows better; she remembers the phone calls threatening to pull her tuition unless she transferred home, the demand for constant updates on her grades, the crocodile tears when accusing her of breaking the family when she decided to stay on the West Coast post-grad. 

The mother who bombarded her with a mandatory trip home by _booking her flights without asking._

Betty supposes, though, if the trip home was prompted by Polly’s three pronged set of big news—pregnant, pregnant with twins, and engaged—she cannot _fully_ blame her mother. She could have at least said something, or asked, at least. _Betty, your older sister is pregnant and engaged and we would all like you to come home for Christmas._ See? Easy as that. 

She sighs and plasters on her smile. “Hi, Mom.” 

Jughead ambles up behind her, Polly hanging onto his elbow and his other arm full of their bags. “Hi, Mrs. Cooper, thank you so much for having me. This was far too generous of you.” Alice waves it away as she gives them all an appraising look. 

“Nonsense, Forsythe.” 

Betty holds out a hand for Polly. “Pol, let me help, Jug is carrying all the bags, don’t knock him over.” 

Polly gives her a sly grin. “He’s cute,” she singsongs in a whisper. “Pregnancy hormones.” 

_God._

Chic rounds out the circus, grumbling, so Betty moves them all forward until Polly is free of her exaggerated balance issues, and they make it through the front door. Dutifully, the three Cooper children remove their boots and coats, placing them on the rubber mat and giant iron coat rack. Jughead looks a bit overwhelmed, so Betty takes their bags from him and discretely points and whispers directions. 

“Forsythe,” Alice begins and Betty can see Jughead cover his wince, “We’re happy to have you here for Christmas, thank you for joining us.” 

_You didn’t exactly give him a choice,_ Betty thinks. She then says, “Well we’re happy to be here, Mom. Thank you again for flying us out.” 

Jughead follows up with the same sentiment, though he sounds far more sincere, “Truly, thank you, Mrs. Cooper.” 

“Well once I ran into Hermione Lodge and heard you wouldn’t be joining Veronica in France, instead _staying by yourselves_ with no Christmas plans, I wasn’t going to leave either of you to fester in what I am sure is a small apartment, given the salaries of a graduate student and a journalist just starting out.” Alice gives them a look. “Why you would choose that over France or seeing your families is beyond me.” 

_Thanks a bunch, Mrs. Lodge._ Once again, though, Betty cannot fathom how it never came up in that conversation nor how it hadn’t occurred to her mother that Betty and Jughead were staying home for Christmas to be _together._

(Or that they turned down France because Jughead’s insecurities flared up at the idea of Veronica paying for everything.)

And yet—

“Forsythe, if you can go ahead and bring your things upstairs, the guest room is at the end of the hall on the right.”

Jughead nods, hesitates, and then says, “Sure thing. I do go by Jughead, though.” 

The crease between what Betty and Polly once dubbed ‘Alice’s Disappointment Brows’ appears but Alice nods, shockingly agreeable, before turning to Betty. “Betty, dear, why don’t you go up as well, perhaps take a shower. A whole day of travel has not agreed with you or your skin.” 

_There_ it is. As much as Betty did indeed want to shower the hours of plane and airport off her, now that it’s been passive aggressively suggested to her, she is tempted to stay in her crummy travel clothes all the way through dinner. 

Halfway up the stairs, Jughead pauses and cocks his head at her. His _Don’t be ridiculous_ is clear, as though he read her exact thoughts. 

Much to her chagrin, Jughead is just disappearing through the guest room door when Betty makes it to the top of the stairs. She tosses her suitcase and new backpack unceremoniously into her childhood bedroom and then tiptoes down the hall. It’s easy to be quiet in her sock feet and as she slides a bit on the last few feet before the doorway, Betty can’t help but remember all the sock racing that she and Chic and Polly used to do when they were kids. 

Only when their parents were out, though. They’ve known better than to cause any sort of ruckus from jump. 

“Hi,” Betty whispers. Jughead turns from where he is taking in the large family portrait, a photo relic from Betty’s grade school days. Polly, already into middle school and growing into her teen rebellion, pitched such a fit about it that year that no more portraits were taken afterward. 

“You looked cute without your front teeth,” he muses, laughter in his voice. 

“Ugh, thank god there are no photos of me when I had braces, because I looked _much_ less cute with those orthodontic monstrosities” 

Jughead’s eyes gleam. “Well now I obviously need to find those. Polly seems like the one willing to throw you under the bus and track those down for me.” 

Betty’s glare is only half-hearted but something akin to possessiveness flares up in her chest. “Don’t get too buddy-buddy with her, Jug, she’s already made a comment about pregnancy hormones and I definitely saw her looking at your ass when you took off your boots.” 

His eyebrows raise. “I’m suddenly not as glad that her fiancé and soon-to-be in-laws aren’t coming.” 

“I’d like to say that she’ll behave but…” Betty trails off, stuck for words. “I don’t know this version of her, Jug. She’s like a total stranger now. Engaged _and_ pregnant and she didn’t even bother to send a text? What, if I hadn’t come out here for Christmas, I’d be finding out on Instagram or something?” 

“Hey, hey,” Jughead soothes, “take a breath. You don’t know if she had a reason to keep it to herself. And you’ll get to spend time with her now, maybe find out. That was always supposed to be the bright side of this trek, right?” 

She nods, taking a beat to concentrate on extending her inhales and exhales. 

“Just do me a favor and run interference if she starts, I dunno, flirting or whatever? I don’t want your mom to poison my food.” Betty chuckles and feels some of the tension leave her chest. Jughead smiles, evidently glad for this result and then continues, “But if I don’t get braces photos then I at least need to see if your bedroom really is as pink as you would have me believe.” 

With a roll of her eyes, Betty leads him down the hall and sweeps her arms out in a _ta-da_ fashion when he comes into her old room. 

“Oh,” Jughead says dumbly. “Yeah, you weren’t kidding.” 

It’s fairly Pepto Bismol pink, a shock to any of her friends during their first visit, but Betty is used to it. “It was leftover from Polly’s room and when Polly convinced our parents to repaint her room, and then _I_ wanted a new color, I got her hand-me-downs. Instant regret.” Betty can’t quite remember the logistics of how her parents pulled the wool over her eyes on that one because she _swears_ they told her she could have the pale green she liked at the hardware store, but when she came back from school her room was decidedly not green. 

Polly and Chic had teased her for pouting about it because _it’s baby pink for Betty being a baby and crying about it._ This was before the days when Polly decided that a sisterly bond was better than an Irish twin bond. 

Betty sighs. She sees Jughead stick his head out the door to check for any stray Coopers and then he comes back to her and wraps her in a hug from behind. With his chin tucked over her shoulder he reassures her softly, “You’re going to be okay, Betts. I love you, you can do this.” 

Betty drops her head back against his chest and breathes deeply again. It is soothing to have him here, but funny to think about the first few giddy texting sessions she had with Jughead after New Year’s, flopped on this very bedspread while she tried to convince herself to not become attached to a boy she’d known for a week. 

If only that version of herself had known what would come, three years down the road. 

“I love you, too, Jug.” 

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, they spring apart to an appropriate distance and Jughead pretends to be engrossed in looking at Betty’s childhood ski medals when Chic pokes his head in. “Betty, Mom says she wants your help with dinner, so I’d hurry up if you want to keep the peace.” Chic then turns his gaze to Jughead, asking in an odd tone, “Do you need anything to get settled, Jughead?” 

Jughead looks equally confused by Chic’s vibe and shakes his head. “No, I’m set, but I’ll get washed up and come help while Betty showers. I just wanted to see the famous pink walls and trophies.” 

Chic grunts his acknowledgement and disappears. 

Betty makes a face. “He’s being weird.” 

Jughead quirks a smile and presses a kiss to her temple. “I’m guessing you never had boys in your room in high school, did you?” Betty shakes her head. “So this is a first, even if we’re—” he exaggerates his whisper “— _just roomates_. I think he’s going macho older brother on me.” 

  
  
  
  


Dinner is—well, it’s dinner. Conversation is a little stilted until Jughead scrambles and asks Polly about how Jason proposed and then that topic carries them all the way through Jughead’s and Chic’s second helpings of the roast chicken and potatoes. Betty’s dad, as ever, just _hmm_ s and nods his way through it all and that normalcy is almost comforting. 

What Jughead doesn’t ask is the question that is on a running chyron in Betty’s brain: which came first, the ring or the pregnancy test? 

A question she is almost _certain_ Alice asked the moment she heard the news, but that Betty isn’t sure she can get away with repeating—either to Polly or her mom. Chic, _maybe_ but if he really is in ‘macho older brother mode’ as Jughead said, maybe it’s not the best idea. 

Chic never has been the overly protective kind of brother, but Betty can’t deny that he’s been acting strange. It’s possible that he clocked what Alice and Polly have not, that Jughead and Betty are together but… wouldn’t he have said something? 

Of all the times for none of the Cooper siblings to be overly active on social media. This all would go a lot smoother if Polly were still in her ski-team-that-may-as-well-be-a-sorority days, or if Betty had the energy to check anything beyond scrolling through group chat backlogs or looking at the funny cat videos Tomoko sends, or if Chic hadn’t settled down and stopped posting stories of his parade of boys- or girls-of-the-night. 

This could be residual over-brothering from Polly showing up pregnant, which is more than fair. 

All of the family seems to have met Jason before, which only serves to fill the well of shame that sits deep in Betty’s stomach. It is clear that she has done multiple things wrong in not acting like a part of this family and in not proudly showing off how happy she and Jughead are together. 

As she takes a big swig of wine to clear her head, Jughead looks at her over the glass, giving an expression as though to ask, _You okay?_

Betty shrugs, making the movement as small as she could. _I guess._

Jughead purses his lips. _If you’re sure._

Again, Betty shrugs, this one saying, _Who even knows._

This silent communication is a warm blanket.

Considerably less warm is trying to get comfortable in her childhood bed when she is so used to the queen she shares with Jughead. Hal disappeared into his home office immediately after dinner, then Polly went to video chat with Jason, and then Alice strongly implied that it was bedtime for _all_ of them and Chic and Betty followed orders, Jughead looking mildly confused as he trailed behind.

Betty is grateful for the time to breathe, outside of a crowded airport or out from under her mother’s eye, but she wishes the alone time didn’t mean she was _quite literally_ alone. 

She isn’t even tired, despite her general exhaustion, still running on West Coast time, and Betty spends about ten minutes staring at the ceiling before she gets up. She’s an adult, she does not need to go to bed when her mother tells her to. Especially not when her boyfriend is just down the hall. 

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand with a text from Jughead. _Do your parents understand that pillows are supposed to be functional?_

He sounds grouchy and it is what propels her to open her door and creep down the hallway.

Inside the guest room, Betty can hear Jughead moving around and grumbling, which she takes to mean he is fighting a losing battle with the absurd number of decorative pillows on the guest bed. 

“They absolutely do not,” Betty answers in a whisper from the doorway, pushing the door open. 

She was right: there is pillow carnage all over the floor and Jughead lays flat on his back, sunk into the equally absurd overstuffed comforter, with only one pillow beneath his head. 

She tiptoes in and shuts the door gently, making no sound. Jughead raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very practiced move,” he teases. 

“I got very good at sneaking a drunk Polly _in,_ not in sneaking myself _out,_ Jug. You have heard more of Veronica’s teasing than anybody else. I was a wet blanket in high school, remember?” Betty plops herself down on the foot of the bed, air compressing out of the duvet in a soft whoosh. She glances around, thinking that the decor of the room really is a bit much if the bedding is this overstuffed. Jughead struggles to sit up, then leans forward to kiss her soundly.

“I certainly _never_ snuck out of my room to go kiss a boy.” 

“Thank you for changing your ways, Ms. Wet Blanket.” Jughead twists his fingers through hers and tugs, “Now get over here and get your sneaking around’s worth of kissing.” 

Betty falls over his chest, catching herself slightly to slot her hips between his and very much get the amount of kissing they deserve. She runs her hands through his damp hair, pulling gently until his head tilts to the side and then dragging her mouth down his jaw and neck. When he groans, Jughead startles and slaps a hand over his mouth. 

“Shit,” he mutters. 

Still kissing across his throat, Betty giggles and her exhales set off goosebumps under her mouth. “It’s fine, Polly is still talking to Jason, Chic is definitely playing videogames, and my mom sleeps with earplugs because my dad refuses to get his deviated septum fixed.” She gets a wicked idea and is sure it shows on her face. “I bet there is plenty we could get away with, without anybody noticing.” 

It’s only been a few hours since being able to be _themselves_ with each other, but Betty realizes she is desperate for this connection so she throws caution to the wind and commits to it. 

_Committing_ , meaning she pulls Jughead’s hand from her hip and slides it up her loose shirt until it rests on her chest and she can press into his grip by arching her back. Jughead gets the idea quickly and uses his other hand to flip them over, pressing Betty into the cushioning. A calm feeling takes over when she sinks even further under his weight. The bedding fluffs up around them, giving the illusion that they’ve fallen into a very green cloud, and it allows Jughead to more easily snake his arms around her waist and squeeze. The embrace settles the last residual nerves from the day and Betty makes a satisfied noise in the back of her throat. Spurred on, Jughead squeezes her in a hug again but lets one hand wander until he can get the handful of her ass that he always goes for directly when they fool around. 

Once he groans her name, all bets are off. Jughead uses his leverage to guide her hips directly into his and then holds her there, stuck, when she sucks kisses against his Adam’s apple. Betty hikes one leg around his waist to press him into her harder and rolls her hips. 

And then she flips Jughead on his back again, sitting atop him and feeling devilish. 

“You know what else I never did in high school?” She trails her pointer finger from the tip of his nose to tug on his bottom lip, down to tug at the collar of his shirt, and then all the way to the elastic waist of his sweats. Betty pulls them back and releases with a snap to his skin, biting her lip at his muted gasp, and she relishes in the glossed-over look Jughead gives her—like he knows what she’s about to say, and he knows that _she_ knows he does. 

He manages to ask _what_ on an exhale, and Betty answers only with a second snap to his waist, this time by both his boxers and sweats. 

“I never sucked off a boy that I snuck in,” she whispers, taking down both of his bottom layers as she says it. 

“Jesus _Christ,_ Betty,” Jughead moans. “You know I get loud when you do that, that is way too dangerous to do under the radar.” 

Betty gives him a sly grin. “Well then we’ll give you something else to do with that mouth.” 

“ _Betts.”_

She meets his state. “ _Jug.”_

It’s a half-assed game of sexual chicken because Betty knows that Jughead is going to give in, despite his mild protest; she might protest too, were the roles reversed, but something has lit up inside her and Betty wants to throw gasoline on it. 

This really _is_ her chance to get some of the risky-things-done-under-her-parents’-roof out of her system. It isn’t all that risky, not with how zoned in on their respective activities her family is—but just enough for there to be that thrill, that delicious idea that they may not get away with it. 

Jughead catches on and she sees it in his eyes when he does. “I don’t remember seeing exhibitionism on that maybes list,” he teases. 

(Early on in their relationship as they began to branch out in the bedroom, Betty and Jughead completed a couples’ web questionnaire for their sexual yeses, maybes, and noes, which the site then compared and generated a list of things both partners would be comfortable with, or comfortable experimenting with. 

It’s been some time since that first quiz and they have _more_ than worth their way through the yeses and most of the maybes. 

It might be time to re-take it, though.) 

Betty chews on her lip, now a little nervous, and shrugs. 

“Betts,” Jughead says, cupping her cheek in his hand and stroking softly. “No shame, remember? If it were a red light, I would tell you.” 

She nods and tries to let his confirmation settle over her, so that this flame in her belly stays alight. “So…” she wheedles. 

Jughead answers with his hands and mouth rather than his voice. In swift movements she can’t quite track, Betty is on her hands and knees braced over Jughead’s body, her mouth just as close to his groin as before but now with his mouth far closer to her own. With reverent hands, Jughead peels down her snowflake pajamas and butterflies kisses over the backs of her thighs. She knows the exact moment he reads the words on the ass of her underwear— _I’ve been good this year_ in shimmery silver across the red of the fabric—because the huff of his laughter blows right over her cunt and Betty trembles, losing focus on her own pants-removing task at hand. 

“I don’t know about _good,”_ Jughead murmurs. “I thought we agreed that our activities put us on the other list.” 

Betty finally wrestles off Jughead’s boxers and slides her mouth over him. 

His _fuck_ is muffled, mid-lick over damp cotton, and when he hooks his thumb to yank the fabric to the side and dive in, Betty reacts with a harsh suck. It continues like that, this push and pull between them, each movement fueled by the previous and then bleeding into the next, until Betty moans around him while she comes against his tongue.

She can feel him mumbling nonsense words into her skin, trying to hold himself off, she knows, so he can get her off once more; his endless generosity in this department makes Betty laugh, and is part of why she used (many, many rounds of) head to apologize for this whole mix-up, because Jughead often doesn’t allow himself to only feel his own pleasure. 

With a pop, Betty pulls herself off his cock to look over her shoulder. “Let me do this,” she whispers. Jughead’s forehead pops up over her ass and he gives her a lopsided grin, lips shiny. 

“Let _me,”_ he counters. 

She relents, but only because he dips back down and sucks on her clit and she falls apart in an instant. Jughead is smiling into her thigh as Betty gets back to work and the moment before he spills into her mouth, he starts on her again to suppress his groan. The vibration of it is too intense for her sensitive flesh and she flops off to the side, grinning. 

“That was a stellar idea,” Jughead sighs, panting to catch his breath. 

Still regulating her own inhales, Betty merely nods. 

Before their sweat cools, she crawls up to his side and kisses his shoulder. “Love you, Juggie.” 

Jughead toys with the ends of her messy hair and leans in, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. “Love you, too, platonic roommate, who I definitely didn’t mouth fuck in her childhood home.” 

Betty rolls over to muffle her giggles with one of the only remaining pillows on the bed. 

  
  
  
  
  


Betty wakes around three in the morning, confused by the way the moonlight bounces through unfamiliar windows. She and Jughead must have fallen asleep at some point in the middle of one of her stories—“ _Regale_ me,” Jughead insisted, pressing for memories of her childhood. 

She had faltered, searching for the happier memories that lived within these floral-papered walls. 

Jughead, ever her best supporter, redirected once he sensed she was on the edge of a spiral. “Tell me your Christmas traditions instead, baby.” 

Her answer was immediate. “Ice skating. Usually Mom didn’t let us do frivolous winter activities over break when all the extra time could be used for ski training, but Christmas Eve was the only time she gave in. There’s this great outdoor rink across town with hot chocolate stands and cinnamon buns and you can watch all the little kids try to balance on the festive standees. Polly and Chic outgrew it faster because they always care more about skiing, so once they hit high school that was kind of it.” Betty had hummed to herself, giddy on the memory. 

“What if,” Jughead whispered into her hair, “We go tomorrow. Even if it’s just the two of us.” 

She thinks this was around when she fell asleep, telling him about when she lost her front tooth after falling on the ice, comforted by his warm embrace and the idea of restarting one of her favorite traditions. Now, though, Betty knows she should move back to her bedroom while she’s awake, lest Chic notice her absence when he gets up in 90 minutes to head to the mountain. 

“Juggie,” she whispers. 

He answers with a mumbled, angry grunt. “G’way, baby. ’s too early.” 

“I know but I have to go back to my room now.” 

Now there’s a grumpy pout. “ _Mean_.” 

Betty giggles and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. She’ll text him once she’s back to her room so he’ll see it when he wakes up for real. 

Tiptoeing down the hall, Betty slips back into her room. The bedsheets are freezing and it takes her too long to fall asleep, unable to get as cozy as she had been with Jughead. 

  
  
  
  
  


“Ice skating, yes! Let’s go, it’s been so long,” Polly exclaims over Alice’s chocolate chip pancakes in the morning. Everyone else is far into their stacks, while Betty clenches her jaw at the counter, stirring up fresh batter because her mom forgot she doesn’t like chocolate in her breakfast. Jughead glances at her, another silent reassurance, but spears another bite of pancake and Betty sticks her tongue out. 

“Polly,” Alice chastises. “I don’t know that skating is the best idea in your condition.” 

Polly snorts. “ _Condition._ I’m pregnant, Mom, not suffering from scarlet fever.” 

Even Chic laughs at that one, though it’s a short chuckle against Betty’s giggles and Jughead’s muffled laughter. Hal sips his coffee to hide the smile. 

“Betty and Jughead can keep me upright and I won’t go fast at all.” Her voice is tinged with a whine and Betty can tell that this will turn into a whole ordeal if Alice pushes back again. 

Their mother sighs. “They’re your children, Pauline. Don’t come crying to me if you fall and one of the babies comes out with mental deficiencies.” 

It’s a sharp comment that sucks the air and joy right out of the room. Betty resists from cracking her head against the cabinets and she sees Polly’s eyes fill with outraged tears. Why on earth their mom thinks it’s a good idea to pull her usual shit on her pregnant, hormonal daughter is beyond her. 

“Pols,” Betty says, pointedly clearing of her throat. “Come with us and get all the good snacks at least, and we’ll see how crowded it is. If there’s a lull, I don’t think there is any harm in going around once or twice as long as you have me and Jug for balance.” 

Polly jumps up so suddenly that Betty startles, breaking the pancake she had been about to flip. Her sister engulfs her in a hug and now Betty is the one to feel tears well up. 

“Love you, Betty-bee,” Polly whispers. At the childhood nickname, Betty relaxes fully into the hug, grateful that there is some semblance of happiness to be had at home. 

  
  
  


As it happens, the outdoor rink is far more crowded than Betty would have thought; it clashes with her memory of having the whole place to themselves as kids, but it’s possible that their visits were so full of fun that it merely felt this way. 

She can tell Polly is disappointed, Alice’s warning heavy on her mind, but her sister puts on a brave face. “Go, go,” she waves to Betty and Jughead. “I have my cocoa and there’s all the sugar a pregnant lady could want within walking distance. I can call JJ if I get bored.” Even Jughead looks doubtful and that compassion alone makes Betty wish she could kiss him fiercely. 

Still feeling guilty, Betty trudges over to the rental stand and requests skates for her and Jughead. There’s some leftover icing from the cinnamon bun on his lower lip when she meets him at the designated area to swap out shoes. After a quick glance to check Polly’s attention, Betty kisses it right off his mouth. 

“Betts,” he says in a mock scandalous tone. “There are _children_ here.” 

Betty huffs and smacks his chest, earning a smirk. 

“Come on, snow bunny, let’s recreate some memories.” 

They only make it a few slow circles around before Betty’s nose is pink and uncomfortably chilled. “Ugh,” she complains. “I guess all that kid energy means you don’t feel the cold.” 

Jughead twists his mouth, clearly in the same boat but unwilling to admit it. Betty has seen him surreptitiously tug his beanie further over his ears several times. “Let’s go warm up with Polly.” 

Betty pouts. “I like holding your hand though, I don’t want to stop.” The layout of the area allows for the two of them to grip their be-mittened hands together for a good two-thirds of each lap, only having to separate when passing right in front of Polly, who waves each time. 

When they rejoin her, Polly passes Betty her cup. “Warm your hands! This is the only reason I feel fine,” she laughs. She poked fun at their shivers when they had come over. 

“I’ll go get us all some more,” Jughead offers. “Three hot chocolates coming up.” 

“Oh Juggie,” Betty calls after him. “Can you see if they have hot cider for me instead?” He gives her a thumbs up and walks off. Betty watches him go, feeling silly for how wistful she knows she looks. 

Polly nudges her. “I see I’m not the only one who thinks your roommate is cute. _Juggie_ is quite the catch. I’m surprised you two haven’t …you know.” She smiles suggestively. 

Betty is glad that the cold means her cheeks are already red, because the very accurate tease and Polly’s keen eye has her blushing. 

“You’ve never even thought about it?” Polly asks, eyes alight. “How could you not?” 

Clearing her throat, Betty looks at the folded hem of Polly’s bright purple hat instead of her eyes and says, “Not even once.” 

.

.

.

.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe responses to all of your lovely comments but please know I read and cherish every single one, even if I am slow to comment back. 
> 
> much love to my writing crew, without whom this chapter would still be languishing until next christmas.

**Author's Note:**

> me: is this too much?  
> jugandbettsdetectiveagency: don’t you dare take away any holiday absurdness
> 
> a thousand thanks to her and to iconicponytail for being my ports in the storm. 
> 
> I would love to know what you think and would love it even more if you could leave a comment. ❤


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